


Love-In-Idleness

by ShadowWolf



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: A Midsummer Night's Dream - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Magic, potential for other pairings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:47:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowWolf/pseuds/ShadowWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you could make someone love you, would you?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love-In-Idleness

**Author's Note:**

> Is this a prologue or just a really short first chapter? I don't even know. Either way, I apologise for its awful quality; hopefully the next chapter will be better.
> 
> EDITED 29-08-2013:  
> Merged chapters one and two, did some minor rewriting; I'm much happier with it this way, so hopefully I'll update with the second chapter soon.

The shop is small and unassuming, tucked between a sweet shop and a dressmakers', and Thomas would not have looked twice at it on any other day. Ripon, small though it is, is full of bookshops, and this one, with its peeling black paint and grimy windows, is nothing to marvel at. In truth, Thomas only ducks in because it is starting to drizzle, and he's loathe to get his new hat wet on his very first day wearing it.  
Inside, the shop is badly lit, and it takes Thomas's eyes a moment to adjust before he can fully take in his surroundings. There's a desk directly inside the door, with a till perched in one corner – the rest of it is taken up by sheets upon sheets of brown paper, and an array of books, falling apart at the seams. The rest of the shop is more than a little cluttered, books stacked high against the walls and packed tightly into ageing bookcases. There's barely enough room even to walk between the shelves, and Thomas moves gingerly to lift one book – gently – from the stack nearest the door, turning it over in his hands. There's no title on it, nor is there anything, really, to indicate what the book might be about, and he has barely enough time to open it before …  
“Welcome to Goodfellows'”  
Thomas startles, and fumbles with the book, coming all too close to dropping it; he's not entirely sure it would have survived the fall.  
The man's lips twitch up into a smile, his dark eyes sparking with barely concealed mirth, and Thomas decides he hates him already, “Are you looking for anything in particular today, sir?” For a man who looks to be much older than Thomas, his voice has an oddly youthful tone to it, sounding more like one belonging to a man half his age.  
Thomas shakes his head absently, his gaze sweeping from the man's unruly dark curls, greying at the temples, to his hands, curled carefully around the spine of a book, down to his dusty shoes, before quickly travelling back up to meet his eyes. They still hold that infuriating glint of amusement.  
“No. Thank you. I'm just browsing.”  
The man – Goodfellow, Thomas assumes – nods, “Very good, sir. But might I suggest you take a look at our special interest section in the back there; I'm sure you'll find something to your taste.”  
The way he says it rubs Thomas up the wrong way, but he finds himself following the direction anyway, moving further into the shop, weaving his way between bookshelves and precariously placed stacks to a shelf in the far corner.  
He feels Goodfellows' eyes on him the whole way there, and it makes him uneasy. He could leave now, if he wanted – outside, the rain has all but stopped, and there'll be a bus back to Downton soon – but something makes him stay. It is the same something that draws him to the 'special interest' shelf, and a book that will change his life in ways that he could never have imagined.

 

The book itself is really nothing out of the ordinary – a sturdy black cover wrapped around yellowing pages, blending neatly into the bookshelf among countless others of its kind – and yet is is the only one that draws Thomas's eye.  
He removes it carefully from the shelf before he can even think about what he's doing, gazing down at the cracked cover. As appears to be a general theme in Goodfellows', there's no title, nothing at all on the cover, save for a fading design in gold ink that Thomas struggles to make out. He gives up after only a moment, and opens the book to the title page. It slips from his hands as his mouth drops open in surprise.  
'Le Grimoire', it proclaims, in elegant black script.  
He slams the book shut without a second thought, but he can't quite bring himself to put it back on the shelf just yet. French was never his strong suit but he knows well enough what he holds in his hands – a grimoire – a book of magic.  
Probably dark magic, he thinks absently, and his hands tremble where they are clenched around the book. He looks again at the cover, harder this time, and thinks he can just about make out the shape of a star. He looks away, at the bookshelf in front of him, where he knows he should return the book and never pick it up again. He's not entirely sure he even believes in magic but he knows what Mr Carson would say on that matter, should he ever find out, and perhaps it is this thought that spurs him on.  
He opens the book again, flipping slowly through pages and pages of spells and enchantments and potions, taking a moment to stare at each one I awed silence. He's almost at the very back of the book when one page in particular catches his eye.  
An illustration of a delicate looking flower – not all that unlike the ones Thomas has seen on his walks through Downton's gardens – adorns the page, below a title of 'Love-In-Idleness'. He scoffs loudly; Thomas is well versed in Shakespeare – he's read A Midsummer Night's Dream before, he knows the story well, and he's certainly not foolish enough to think it could possibly be real … and yet, regardless of how … well, silly it may seem, he just can't tear his eyes away.  
The potion, for that is what it appears to be, is clearly some sort of love potion, boasting the ability to induce feelings of 'intense lust and infatuation', and Thomas is ashamed to admit his thoughts immediately go to Jimmy. hey're friends now, and Thomas should be content with that – he is content with that – but his mind lingers on Jimmy's words – so many months ago now: 'I can never give you what you want'  
He could, though, a small part of his brain helpfully supplies, This book could give you all you ever wanted, Thomas – and more – if you were only brave enough to take it.  
And Thomas is nothing if not brave, but he's not stupid either. Even if he did believe in magic, even if he did believe this thing could actually work, he's read enough books to know that magic rarely works in the villain's favour – and that's what he is, isn't he? The villain of his own story, scheming and plotting and ruining other peoples lives' with his – how had Carson put it? – foulness?  
But there are some lines even Thomas would not dare cross, and forcing someone to do something against their will is high on his list of things Thomas never wants to resort to. No, even if he did believe that this book could be the answer to his problems, he could never use it.  
But he already cares about you, that same small part of himself reminds the rest of him, All you would be doing is giving him a little push.  
“I could never do that,” He murmurs, as if, in speaking the words aloud, he might make himself believe them; banish the very thoughts from his mind, “I wouldn't stoop so low.”  
Wouldn't you?  
He shivers, and it t takes a great deal of willpower to make himself close the book, to tear his eyes away from the page. He isn't sure how long he has spent in Goodfellows', but he knows it's been too long. The rain has stopped, the light pitter patter of water on a tile roof long since silenced, and bright sunlight streams in through murky windows. The shop doesn't seem quite as dank and dreary now the sun is shining through; even Goodfellow himself, who sits at his desk mending the binding of a well-loved book, seems to have brightened considerably.  
He is halfway to the door before he realises Le Grimoire is still clutched firmly in his hands.  
“Shall I wrap that for you, sir?” Goodfellow asks cheerfully, his eyes twinkling in a way that implies he knows far more than one might think.  
Thomas stops, looks down at the book, and frowns. If there were ever a moment to believe in fate, this would be it. He sighs a resigned sigh, and places the book on the counter.  
Buying it, he tells himself firmly, is not the same as using it.  
He will come to regret the purchase – he knows this already – but, in that moment, he is unaware of just how much heartache that one book will bring.

 

He wakes the next morning feeling no more rested than he had the night before. He'd worried over the book until the early hours of the morning, repeating those same words over and over – I wouldn't do that to Jimmy. I couldn't do that to Jimmy.   
Even after he'd fallen into a fitful sleep, his dreams had been plagued by thoughts of Goodfellow and the grimoire, and that potion. And Jimmy, in his arms and in his bed and in his life. Forever.  
You're tempted. That voice – that desperate little part of his brain that refuses to give in – reminds him.  
He ignores it, washing and dressing quickly – he's already late for breakfast. Still, he pauses at the door. The book stares mockingly at him from his bedside table, still sitting atop the brown paper it had been wrapped in, and Thomas stares back for a long moment. Then, in a sudden movement, he flings open his bedside drawer and shoves the book, unceremoniously, inside.  
It's a beautiful book, even in its simplicity, nice to look at if nothing else, but Thomas is not sure he trusts himself to look at it every day and not act. He may not fully believe in this nonsense masquerading as magic, but there is part of him that thinks it might be worth a try, that anything might be worth a try. He's been alone for so long now, he's not sure there's anything he wouldn't do for a chance at love.   
But he wouldn't do that to Jimmy – couldn't do that to Jimmy. He continues to repeat this to himself as he goes down to breakfast, a cheerful smile plastered on his face. Maybe, if he pretends long enough, he might just believe it.


End file.
